


nothing you can fake

by flimsy



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Blow Jobs, Comfort Sex, Hook-Up, Intoxication, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flimsy/pseuds/flimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Nick is not sure what Louis Tomlinson is doing at the Breakfast Show’s one year anniversary celebration.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing you can fake

Nick is not sure what Louis Tomlinson is doing at the Breakfast Show’s one year anniversary celebration; it’s not an official party by any means, and Louis’ presence, his small, but solid body ducking into the room, smiling like he’s not sure what to expect, makes Nick go silent in his rendition of some old, but undoubtedly hilarious, childhood story. 

He watches Harry get up from his table near the door and fist-bump with Louis in greeting, his back straightening as they talk. He looks squarer, longer, leaner, next to Louis’ form, taller, too, the muscles in his back moving when he reaches up to push his hair back. He says something and Louis laughs, delighted, and claps his hands together. He’s in light grey jeans and a tight black T-shirt, Converse shoes and a hoodie, and his hair is soft and unstyled, like he’s just come from a shower. He looks like he smells of soap and maybe shampoo; Nick finds himself inadvertently imagining the scent to be simple, but clean and fresh. 

Harry’s hand comes down on Louis’ shoulder, fingers curling in the fabric of Louis’ hoodie, thumb tracing a line down to hook into the strap of the hood, and suddenly Louis’ smile turns bitter, the corners of his mouth tugging down even while he’s trying to keep up the facade. The shadows under his eyes grow until he drops his head and hides his face under his fringe. Harry squeezes his shoulder again and then lets go, and Nick swallows and realizes that he’s been holding his breath. 

“Twink alert,” Pixie says, poking his side. “Three o’ clock, Nick.” 

Nick turns to look at her, frowning for a moment, then realizes that she’s talking about Louis. “Tomlinson?” he says with a huff, and gives her a sarcastic brow, moulding half his mouth into a carefully controlled smirk. “Right.”

“Did you invite him?” Henry asks from his left, and Nick shakes his head slowly, as if deliberating.

“No,” he finally says. “I don’t think I did. He must’ve tagged along with Styles. Maybe he got bored of his one-hundred-thousand pound playroom.” 

Louis is gone when Nick looks up again; Harry is back at his table, and, looking around, Nick finds Louis’ ashen head move through the thin crowd of people toward the makeshift bar by Finchy’s desk. 

“Excuse me,” Nick says with a sly smile, pats Pixie’s shoulder, and unfolds his limbs to weave past familiar bodies and faces toward Louis and the bar. He finds him topping off his drink with coke - too little for the mix, in Nick’s opinion - and grabs two bottles of cider from right next to Louis even though he’s left an almost full bottle of beer back at the table. 

“Don’t you think that’s a bit of a risky proportioning?” he asks when Louis’ stance stiffens in response to Nick pressing closer. 

“I’m not all that into eight quid a bottle-cider,” Louis shoots back; he gives his drink a stir with a little cocktail umbrella and leaves it in, stuck between rocks of ice. When he looks up, his eyes are very blue and very cold. 

Nick takes a swig from his bottle, deliberately swallowing once, twice, taking his time, and then says, “You should give it a try. It’s really very good.” 

Louis’ nose scrunches up, like he’s smelled something he didn’t like; he reaches past Nick for one of the thick, short drinking straws and jams it into his drink next to the funny little umbrella. Nick wonders for a moment if Louis is doing this intentionally - the umbrella, the straw, making it look like a proper drink, when with the way it’s been mixed it must taste acidic and bitter - but then loses his trail of thought when Louis raises the glass in an act of mock-toasting and wraps his lips around the straw. His cheeks hollow as he sucks, but he keeps his gaze steadily on Nick, drinking until the heavy load of ice in his glass is no longer fully engulfed by liquid. 

He’s small in his hoodie and T-shirt, smaller even than Nick had remembered him, but when he lets the straw drop from lips, chasing a stray drop with the pink tip of his tongue, Nick feels dwarfed by his desire to reach out and sweep the flat of his thumb over Louis’ plump bottom lip to make sure he’s not missed an iota of liquid. 

“Congratulations on one year, Grimmy,” Louis says out of the blue. “You must be thrilled.” He leans back against the table, one arm over his middle, like he’s protecting a soft spot. 

Nick regards him for a moment, trying to decide what it is that Louis could possibly want, trying to figure out why he’s here and nursing this stupidly strong drink like it’s a lifeline, and then decides that he doesn’t really care. “I am, actually,” he replies and takes another swig from his cider. “I actually am really rather thrilled. It was a great year.” He gives Louis a genuine smile, one that he knows reaches his eyes, and watches Louis’ expression shift from guardedness to confusion in a heartbeat. 

“Fantastic,” Louis says. “Well, I’ll leave you to your cider and celebrations.” He pushes off the table, smoothing his hand down his chest and stomach as though he’s making sure his T-shirt’s not wrinkled, and then ducks away. 

Nick knits his brows, eyes dropping to where Louis’ jeans fit snugly over the curve of his arse, where the muscles in his pleasantly thick thighs are playing beneath the fabric while he walks.

“Huh,” he says to himself a moment later, then joins Pixie and Henry and the others at his table again. Somebody’s broken out the good vodka and the bottle is nestled in an ice bucket like a treasure on an island in the centre of the table. Nick sighs and reaches for it without commentary, pouring a glass and letting Pixie top it off with just the right amount of Red Bull. 

“I’m no longer in the mood for civilized drinking,” he says and takes a large sip, wincing, and washes the taste down with some more cider. “Is it past twelve yet, Pixie?”

“It’s past twelve somewhere,” Pixie says and clinks her glass against Nick’s. 

“Good, good,” Nick replies and then empties his glass. He can make out Louis’ head at Harry’s table, and wishes he’d told the boy straight out that he was being rude. As if on cue, somebody nudges his thigh under the table. 

“What did you tell him?” one of the boys Henry brought along asks, eyes wide and curious. 

Nick shrugs and purses his lips. “Nothing much. He’s a friend of a friend after all. And we do have enough alcohol to keep all of us going for the entire weekend.” 

Pixie gives him a look like she knows something that Nick himself doesn’t, and Nick smiles, raises his glass at her and lifts his middle finger. 

“Come on, guys,” he says. “This is my party, and we’re celebrating one year, no more distractions!”

“Cheers!” Henry shouts and starts pouring shots from a tequila bottle that Nick had not previously been aware of. “Shots! Everyone, gather!”

The space around their table begins filling as people come to join in on their round of shots, and Nick slides off his stool and raises his shotglass, letting Pixie sprinkle salt on his other hand. 

“Friends, friends!” The room falls mostly silent save for the occasional drunk giggle which Nick is willing to forgive. “To another year of Showbot showing us the ropes.” He licks the salt off his hand and knocks his shot back, wincing, and then bites into the slice of lemon somebody hands him. Everyone else follows suit, and Henry fills Nick’s shotglass again. 

“To another year of six o’clock madness,” he continues and repeats the procedure - lick, tequila, lemon - and then again and once again until his head is fuzzy and he can’t come up with anything at all to toast to anymore. Laughing he falls back onto his stool, rinsing his mouth with cider. 

When he looks up again, he catches sight of Louis across the table, face pulled together tightly and sucking on a lemon while Harry is laughing at him. His cheeks are as red as Nick’s feels from the tequila and he looks a lot more relaxed than before. His neck arches, shoulders shifting, and Nick swallows tightly and takes another sip of his beer and then pours himself another shot of tequila. 

“Nick?” Pixie asks, turning away from her conversation, but Nick just shakes his head at her and swallows the contents of the glass in one big gulp, foregoing the salt and the lemon altogether. 

“Nick, don’t,” she continues and Nick rolls his eyes at her, focusing on the frown on her face for a moment. 

“I’m not going to do anything, babe,” he promises and leans down to kiss her forehead, but she evades, pushing at his chest. “Honestly,” Nick says and prods her cheek. 

Louis has gone for another shot and is wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, laughing by the time Nick manages to make his way through the crowd around the table. 

“Yo, Haz,” Nick says and drapes his arm around Harry’s shoulder, pulling him in for a half-hug. 

“Yo, Nick,” Harry imitates, voice going a little high, then laughs, and ducks away. He looks like a little kid with his hair in disarray and his cheeks flushed with alcohol. 

“What are you, forty?” Louis asks with cocked eyebrows, his bottom lip caught between his teeth for a moment. 

“Easy, tiger,” Nick says and Louis gives him an odd look, but relaxes more quickly than Nick would have thought, and Nick continues, “I’ve meant to ask before, but then I forgot - to what do I owe the honor?” 

“What?” Louis tilts his head, gaze flicking to Harry and then back to Nick.

“Of your visit,” Nick elaborates. He feels a little giddy from the tequila, and the way the fabric of Louis’ T-shirt is clinging to his chest and stomach is making him even more giddy. 

“I invited him.” Harry smiles at Nick and shrugs. “Sorry?”

“No, no-” Nick shakes his head, but keeps his eyes on Louis, who’s still staring at the both of them like he’s not sure whether to bolt. “I like having him around,” Nick says before he can stop himself, and then winces and quickly raises his bottle to take a large sip. “That came out wrong.”

“A bit.” Harry grins and shakes his head, but then to Nick’s surprise ducks away, heading to the bar. 

“Harry-” Louis starts, then moves as if he’s going to follow, but stops again. “Git,” he says fondly. 

Nick feels a smile tug at his lips and gives in, letting it spread over his face. “Who?”

“Both of you actually,” Louis replies, but doesn’t lose the fond tone in his voice. Then suddenly, he announces, “I need another shot.” He turns and fiddles with the bottle and the salt and the lemon slices, then shudders like a little animal when he drinks it, looking back over his shoulder, and normally Nick would take that as a come hither look, as a press against me and do a shot with me look, and part of his body most definitely takes it as that, but there is a part of his brain that has remained surprisingly sober yet. 

“Nick,” Louis says and pours another half-glass, before drinking. It’s only now that Nick notices the unsteadiness in his voice, the way he’s leaning against the table, the way the short hair at the back of his neck is sticking to his skin. 

Nick takes a step and puts the tequila bottle out of Louis’ reach, earning an annoyed grunt in response. 

“You’re no fun,” Louis sighs and pouts, lips puckered together tightly, eyes big and round. 

Nick closes his eyes for a moment, tries to collect himself, but his hand has a mind of its own and finds Louis’ waist, squeezing. He half expects a fist in his guts or at least a slap to the balls - which might be more Louis’ style, fast and effective - but instead Louis leans into the touch. 

“You’re drunk,” Nick says, and then realizes that he’s saying this very much to himself, rather than Louis who must be aware of the fact. As if he’s read Nick’s mind, Louis huffs out a laugh. “That about sums it up, yes.” He looks up, licks his lips, then says, much like an afterthought, “Handsy.” 

“Sorry-” Nick pulls away and moves a step back, bringing some space between them again. He perks up as if somebody’s called his name and cranes his neck over the crowd, like he’s looking for somebody. “Looks like I’m urgently required over there,” he says and slinks back another two, three steps. Louis gives him a frown, looking confused and almost hurt, but doesn’t say anything, so Nick mixes with the crowd, finding another cold beer and two people he doesn’t quite remember knowing, for a conversation in the back of the room. He’s only semi-invested, however, mind and eyes straying to find Louis in the sea of people once and again, first with Harry and then talking to a friend of Nick’s, her big hair obscuring half his face, and then alone at the bar. 

It’s true, Nick thinks, he likes having Louis around; he likes watching Louis because watching Louis is like watching an animal, watching it adapt and evolve to fit its surroundings, watching it grow used to the people around. Louis is a little strange, and very loud, all to cover that up maybe, and Nick finds it interesting. 

He takes a sip from his beer, frowns when it’s warm and stale, and sets on the nearest table to go in search of a new drink; he finds some iced vodka juice mix and then talks Pixie out of a cigarette and heads out of the office to sit on the emergency stairs where a broken neon tube bathes the hall in flickering half-light. 

He lights the cigarette and takes a few deep breaths, then checks his phone; there’s a couple of tweets about the party and pictures, a photo of Harry with a lamp on his head tweeted by one of Nick’s friends, and fans tweeting him for details. Louis isn’t in any of the pictures, but Nick’s not surprised by that. 

He’s smoked half the cigarette and gone down fifty tweets when the door to the stairway opens and Louis squeezes in; he looks happy, face bright, and doesn’t slow down when he sees Nick. 

“What’re you hiding out here for, Grimshaw?” he asks and drops to a squat next to Nick, who quickly pockets his phone. 

“Needed a break,” he says, and then Louis reaches into his personal space and steals his cigarette. He takes a drag, makes a face, and places it back between Nick’s lips gingerly. 

“Gross,” he comments, blowing smoke out between his lips. There’s no trace left of the sadness or unsteadiness from before, and he smells as clean as Nick had previously imagined he would. He steals Nick’s beer, too, and takes a sip, whilst Nick finishes off his cigarette and stubs it out with the heel of his boot.

“What’re you doing here, Louis?” Nick finally asks. “This isn’t really your usual crowd I would’ve thought.”

Louis hums and shrugs, lips still wrapped around the crown of the bottle. Finally he pulls off with a pop, giving Nick a small, innocent smile that betrays his actions. “I needed a distraction.” 

“Right,” Nick replies. He watches Louis for another second and then pulls himself up by the handrail, balancing precariously on the edge of the step for a moment before catching himself. “Come on, pup, I’ll show you something.” 

“Nothing naughty, Nick,” Louis says with a grin, but he takes Nick’s hand when Nick extends it to help him up. His fingers are cold and Nick squeezes them for a moment, involuntarily wanting to warm him up a little, before letting go. 

“Nothing naughty, promise.” Nick catches himself before he can elaborate on it, before he can add a stupid _Not unless you want me to_ , and starts up the stairs, taking two at a time. Louis follows, but more slowly, and Nick stops at the top of the flight waiting for Louis to catch up. 

He fiddle the little grey keycard from his pocket and unlocks the door leading to the studio floor of the building. 

“Oooh,” Louis makes, tone mocking, and Nick throws him a glare. 

“I _know_ you’ve been here before, so zip it.” He says and veers right, down a corridor with Louis on his heels. The scent of fresh paint engulfs them, and Nick looks over his shoulder to catch sight of Louis looking around curiously. 

“This is new,” he says, and Nick nods, grinning. He unlocks a door on the left and lets Louis inside. 

The room is a bit smaller than Nick’s studio, but what it lacks in size it makes up in equipment. “We’re going to be doing live shows here, and air them,” Nick says. “It was my idea.”

Louis stares for a moment, then wanders past Nick, trailing his hand along the new, shiny black controls, protected by a transparent plastic sheet. He looks both in awe and surprised, and after a moment turns to look at Nick again. “Why’re you showing me this?”

Nick shrugs and smiles again. “Dunno. Thought you might enjoy it.” He almost regrets bringing Louis up here, feels foolish for a moment, until Louis looks down to hide his smile, rubbing his thumb over his lip. 

“This is pretty cool,” he admits and leans against the soundboard. 

The look on his face makes Nick’s stomach do this odd, twisty thing, makes him catch his breath, and he turns away quickly so Louis won’t see his expression change, and starts rummaging in a cupboard in the back of room. He produces a bottle of expensive champagne, then sits in the leather chair in front of the soundboard. 

Louis gives him a curious look, nodding at the bottle, and Nick shrugs, carefully prying it open. “I wanted to celebrate on Monday, but I can just get another bottle.” The cork springs from the bottleneck with a _pop_ , followed by a splash of foam that pulses over Nick’s hand. 

“Shit,” he curses, gets up and moves the bottle away, wiping his hand on his jeans, frowning as he leans against the counter next to Louis.

“You always have that issue?” Louis asks and takes the bottle from Nick’s hand; he takes a swig without taking his eyes off Nick, and Nick frowns at him in confusion. Louis elaborates after handing the bottle back. “Premature ejection.” 

Nick snorts, amused, and takes a sip of champagne to buy some time. “Not that I’m aware of. Nobody’s ever complained before. Plus, it’s all about the quality, isn’t it?”

Louis very visibly rolls his eyes and then prods Nick’s calf with his shoe and Nick hands the bottle back. They go back and forth for a few turns, until they’ve had half the bottle and Nick feels very warm inside again. 

“This is nice,” Louis finally says. He leans back more and closes his eyes, exposes his neck, and Nick stares, mouth going dry. The entire situation is suddenly very surreal. He’s in a brand new studio with Louis Tomlinson, sharing an eighty pound bottle of champagne and talking about Nick’s sexual prowess. 

“Hey, Nick.” Louis prods Nick again. “Stop thinking so much.” 

“Sort of hard,” Nick replies, trying to laugh it off. Another sip and then Louis steps away from the soundboard and leans in closer to Nick to take the bottle again; he seems to almost lose balance, but catches himself with one hand on Nick’s thigh, holding on while he drinks. His fingers dig in, and his body is warm against Nick’s, and it’s not like Nick is made of stone, he’s not inhuman, so he reaches out and fits his hand over the small of Louis’ back, just where his T-shirt is riding up to reveal the waistband of his briefs. 

“Sort of hard, huh?” Louis presses closer until Nick’s knee and thigh slides between Louis’ thighs, and the bulge of Louis’ crotch presses against Nick. “Sort of.” He sets the bottle down and Nick sucks in a breath and holds it, his heart thrumming in his ears like a sledgehammer. Louis’ hand on his thigh creeps higher, dangerously close to Nick’s cock now. 

“If I didn’t know better,” Nick starts, feeling lightheaded, “I’d think you’re trying to chat me up, peanut.” 

Louis hums, the sound vibrating through him and into Nick, making him shiver. “And if I were? What would you do?” 

Nick laughs, then shakes his head. “I’d be really confused.” 

“Then get a grip,” Louis murmurs and slides his hand up to cup Nick’s cock through his jeans. The touch sends another shiver through him and Nick gasps, then makes an embarrassing hiccup sound when Louis bites down on his neck and starts sucking a lovebite in. 

He makes a hungry noise and squeezes Nick’s cock, which betrays Nick by filling up and growing heavy in Nick’s jeans embarrassingly fast. “Louis,” Nick manages and tries very hard to stay still, knees going weak. 

“What?” Louis pulls away and trails his mouth up Nick’s chin; he has a light stubble, almost unnoticeable, but pressed against Nick’s skin it’s deliciously rough, dragging while Louis speaks. “What’s up?” He rubs a circle with his hand on Nick’s cock and Nick swallows a moan, and decides that Louis is old enough to make his own decisions and doesn’t need Nick questioning his motives, especially when he seems so set on getting into Nick’s pants. 

“Nothing,” he grits out and slides his hand to Louis’ arse, digging into the soft flesh until Louis squeaks, laughs and presses his lips against Nick’s, licking into his mouth. They don’t quite fit together at first, and Nick tilts his head down and lets his other hand join his right on Louis’ bum to pull him up and closer so he can kiss him properly, so he can suck on his bottom lip and swallow Louis’ low, pleased moan. There’s a trace of nicotine, oddly, from that one, lonely drag Louis took from Nick’s cigarette, and the taste of mint, like had been chewing gum just before he came out looking for Nick. 

The thought makes Nick smile into kiss, makes him rock up and crave skin. “‘s this what you came here for?” he breathes when they break apart and Louis makes a tiny noise, neither approval nor dissent, and Nick kisses down his neck to bite down onto the soft spot where his pulse is fluttering through his skin like a caged bird. “You’re so fucking hot,” he grunts, suddenly unable to hold back, “so fucking hot, coming here for this-” He kneads Louis’ arse and goes with the movement, helping along when Louis begins rocking against him, rubbing his hardening dick through his jeans against Nick’s thigh. 

“I wanna-” Louis moans again and Nick sucks another bruise into his neck right where its curve turns into the tendon of his shoulder, where he might still be able to cover it up with a T-shirt if he wanted to. 

It’s like the tone in Louis’ voice breaks something loose in Nick, unhinges a door, and Nick feels dizzy with it, hot and needy. “What do you need, baby?” he grunts, then uses one hand to fumble open Louis’ jeans. They’re just one button and a zip, thank god, and Louis’ cock stretches the fabric of his pants to curve into the palm of Nick’s hand, heavy and thick. 

Louis drops his head back, breathing heavily through his nose, adam’s apple bobbing up and down until Nick leans in and bites it gently, then moves to drop kisses up his neck to his chin; Louis moans, half a laugh, and rolls his hips against Nick’s thigh, much like he’s riding him. Nick’s cock stirs at the thought, twitching, and he groans again. 

“So, are we going to do this like teenagers? Standing up and rubbing off?” he quips and Louis makes a displeased noise, moving to look at Nick through half-closed eyes. 

“Picky,” he hisses and stills his hand. “What would you prefer then?”

Nick licks his lips and thrusts up into Louis’ hand, missing the friction. “I want to fuck your mouth,” he admits. “I’ve been wanting to fuck your mouth pretty much since you-” He stops again, picturing Louis with his lips wrapped around a thick black drinking straw, and realizes that the outcome of the night had been decided in that moment a few hours ago, and that Nick had no hand in it. 

He wants to elaborate but Louis presses their mouths together again, holding onto Nick’s neck for a moment before sliding his hands down his chest and to his flies, undoing them while he sinks to his knees. Nick is amazed by his coordination for a second before his brain short-circuits at the sight of Louis - his lips wet and parted and red - kneeling before him and reaching into Nick’s jeans to pull out his swollen cock. 

He’s surprised by how hard he already is, the head turning purple, glans peeking out from under his foreskin which is stretched tightly to reveal the glistening head. Louis seems to notice, too, cocking a brow at Nick before he gently wrapping his fingers around the thick base and pressing his thumb against the underside of the crown to rub a circle. 

Nick makes a desperate noise that dies in his throat in a choked grunt, and lifts his hips off the counter to meet Louis’ hand. His fingers barely manage to curl all the way around Nick’s cock, wrist bent, his hand small and cool against Nick’s heated skin. 

“Lick it,” Nick says, and he intends for it to come out like a joke, but it turns out more pleading than he’d intended. 

“You’d like that,” Louis responds and grins; he twists his hand a little and strokes Nick’s dick up, then down again, and Nick groans and tries to fuck into his hand. 

“Come on, poppet,” he grunts, “come on-”

“I hate your fucking nicknames,” Louis says and squeezes so tightly for a moment that Nick sees stars. “Too bad your prick is nice looking.” 

He leans in closer until his breath ghosts over the head of Nick’s cock, cool, and then flicks his tongue out to touch the tip, licking along the glans; he carefully pulls the foreskin back and tongues the slit, then wraps his lips around it and sucks gently. He keeps it light and teasing, though, not putting much pressure on his fingers around Nick’s dick either, and Nick bites his tongue to keep himself from just thrusting in. 

Louis works himself down deeper until Nick is pushing against the plush inside of his cheek; he looks wrecked already, face red, and lips swollen, but Nick wants to see come apart, wants to see him dirty. 

“Lou,” he grunts and slides a tentative hand up Louis’ skull, stroking his hair. He pushes gently and expects teeth, expects Louis to pull back and tell him to behave, but instead Louis drops his hand from Nick’s cock to rest against his thigh and tilts his head back in an open invitation. 

His lashes flutter for a moment and Nick hears him inhale like he’s preparing himself, and Nick grants him a moment, clenching the muscles in his legs to hold back. He tugs at Louis’ hair again after that, making him change the angle and tips his hips forward to slide in deeper. 

Another shuddery intake of breath is followed by Louis’ closing his lips around Nick’s cock gently, not offering resistance, just a teasing pressure, and Nick curls his fingers in Louis’ hair and pulls all the way out, using his grip on his hair as leverage. He pushes back in, the head of his cock catching against Louis’ puckered lips before squeezing back inside, and Louis makes a sound like he’s enjoying this, pupils visibly dilating. 

Nick thrusts until his cock hits the back of Louis’ throat, pulls at Louis’ hair to change the angle, and Louis simply goes with it, eyes watering, cheeks bright red. Nick bites his lip and keeps going, building a slow but steady rhythm of pulling out to give Louis time to breathe and thrusting back in, working himself in more deeply with each time until he can feel the catch of Louis’ throat close around his cock with each time. 

Louis is loud, humming and moaning, slurping as he sucks; he keeps his eyes open, fixated on Nick, and keeps his hands on Nick’s thighs as though he’s trying to prove something. 

“You should see yourself,” Nick grits out between thrusts, feels sweat gather at the back of his neck and his forehead. He might come soon, he realizes; his stomach feels tight with pressure, and his balls are heavy and feel ready to burst. He imagines for a moment coming on Louis’ face, covering it, and stutters, gasping as he desperately tries to regain control. 

Louis moans in response, opens up more, lips slick with spit and precome, his fringe stuck to his forehead. Nick curses softly and reaches down quickly to grip the base of his cock, squeezing. 

“I’m coming-” He half expects Louis to back off now, to find a tissue or use his T-shirt to catch it all, but instead Louis presses closer until his nose is almost pressed into Nick’s pubes and Nick can feel his throat clenching and unclenching around his cock, can feel Louis tense up with the urge to pull back. 

“Fuck-” He moans again, more loudly, voice breaking, and feels himself go off, cock twitching between his fingers and Louis’ lips. He closes his eyes, overwhelmed, mind going blank for a second, and when he opens them again, Louis is staring up at him with wet eyes, his fingers digging into Nick’s thigh. Nick shifts a bit and uses his hand in Louis’ hair to pull him off gently. His cock slides from Louis’ mouth with a wet sound, leaving a thin connecting trail of spit and thick come between the head of it and Louis’ swollen bottom lip, which breaks when Louis licks his lips and sits back against his heels, chest rising and sinking fast.

Nick helps him up, holds him close with one hand around his biceps and kisses him roughly, tasting himself. Louis pulls away shortly after, breathing hard, pupils blown and eyes dark. 

“Nick,” be breathes against Nick’s mouth, and his voice sounds broken and coarse, like a worn road. He steps back and shrugs off his hoodie and then wiggles out of his T-shirt without any trace of self-consciousness. Nick stares transfixed, heart still racing, with his softening dick in his hand, and then tucks himself back in. 

“You taste nice,” Louis continues and takes off his shoes, then shimmies out of his jeans; he’s not wearing socks and his thighs are tinted with a trace of golden summer, dusted in light blond hair that matches the sparse, but groomed patch on his chest. His pubic hair is short and trimmed, darker, but his cock is pink and thick, curving slightly to the left where he wraps his fingers around the base and squeezes. 

Nick meets his eyes and then reaches out and presses his thumb against his lip, feels Louis flick his tongue out to lick at it, before fitting his hand around the small of his neck.

“Come here-” He uses his other hand to pull Louis close again and then traces it down his shoulder to his chest and the soft mound of his stomach, to his abdomen, and finally guides it to join Louis’ hand on his cock. 

For some reason - possibly due to too much American porn -, Nick has always pictured Louis to be cut even if it seemed unlikely; he’s not. Nick stares for a moment, mouth watering, until Louis makes a desperate sound and rides into Nick’s touch, heat radiating from his body. 

“Can you do something?” he demands and Nick chuckles and leans down to nuzzle his chin. This he expected - Louis to be vocal and needy and commanding. Now that he’s got him naked, it’s easier to admit that he’s been thinking about it, too. 

“What do you want me to do, hm?” he murmurs and trails his lips up to Louis’ mouth, gently kissing him. He finds Louis’ arse again, squeezing, and Louis arches against him, moaning. “Ah,” Nick hears himself say. He lets go of Louis’ cock and parts his cheeks, kneading them in his hands, and then teases Louis’ crack with the tip of a finger which sends a tangible shiver through Louis. 

“Do _that_ ,” Louis grunts; he closes his eyes and drops his forehead against Nick’s chest, pushing back against Nick’s hands. 

“What, you like your little bum played with, hm?” Nick wonders, distractedly, how far he can push it, but Louis just wiggles closer and bites at his chest, like he’s challenging Nick to play with him. Nick gives him a good last pet, then moves them both a little, positions Louis against the sound board with his arse up and trails his hand down his back.

Louis laughs and looks over his shoulder, bats his lashes and goes up on his toes with his thighs spread a little. He reaches back and smacks his bum before Nick has a chance to, then spreads himself open. 

“Fuck,” Nick swears; Louis is shaved - or waxed - all smooth and pink between his cheeks. Nick presses his thumbs in and opens him up more and Louis wiggles his arse, giving Nick a suggestive look. And Nick - Nick’s _loves_ the way Louis is so playful and offering and confident, so he drops to his knees, licks the pad of his thumb and rubs it against the pucker of Louis’ arsehole, feels it clench, then leans in and flicks his tongue over it too. 

“Ah-ah,” Louis makes, body jerking, pushing back against Nick’s face. The angle is odd, though, so Nick blindly reaches for the leather office chair and pulls himself into it, trying not to lose contact. Louis moves his hand away from his bum, his breathing harsh, and Nick cups both his cheeks with his hands to hold them apart and buries his face between them, pressing the tip of his tongue against Louis’ hole. 

He flicks it, licking more deeply, feels Louis tense and relax, his voice and moans growing louder the deeper Nick licks. He continues until he’s found a rhythm with the sinuous movements of Louis’ body against his tongue, until Louis’ hole it wet and slick with his saliva and Louis is moaning with every time Nick presses in gently. 

He pulls away to catch his breath and sucks his middle finger between his lips, getting it slick, then wedges the tip inside Louis, wiggling until it slides in. 

“Oh god- god- fuck-,” Louis howls, muscles working to accommodate Nick’s finger, but he tries to move against it, fuck himself on it, so Nick forces it deeper, then pulls back out and thrusts back in. 

“You like that?” he asks. “You like getting fucked?”

Louis sobs out another moan and then brokenly replies, “Yeah, yes, I do- fuck- fuck me Nick-” 

Nick chokes on his voice, then nods frantically, his cock twitching, going from a semi to fully hard in a second. “I want to, I need to fuck you-” He leans in and lets a dollop of spit drop on Louis’ hole, then presses his forefinger in, twisting and fucking into Louis. 

Louis squeals and spreads his legs more, then drops his head against his arms and curves his back. Nick can see that he’s still hard; he reaches between his legs and pulls Louis’ cock toward himself a little, rubbing the shiny head with his thumb, watches Louis shudder.

“Don’t, don’t,” Louis pleads and Nick lets go again, doesn’t want him to come too soon, doesn’t want him to come before he’s buried balls deep. 

“Do you have lube?” he asks, patting down his jeans even though he knows there’s none hidden in his pockets. Despite appearances, Nick isn’t usually one to fuck guys in the studio, or anywhere else outside his flat for that matter. 

To his surprise Louis nods frantically. “Back pocket,” he hisses and Nick turns around on his chair without removing his fingers from Louis’ arse. He spots Louis’ light grey trousers not too far off and uses his foot to drag them closer. There’s two sachets of lube in the right back pocket and Nick drops one in his lap and rips the other one open with his teeth, squeezing its contents onto his fingers pressed into Louis and the rim of his hole. 

“Cold!” Louis whines, but Nick is barely listening, focussed on trying not to come in his pants from the way Louis’ body tightens around his fingers yet still allows them to press deeper, slicked by lube now. Nick works a third finger in without warning, enjoying the way Louis squirms and moans, and sets to opening him up properly. 

It doesn’t take long until Louis is swallowing his fingers down, and Nick sucks in a breath and presses his hand against his cock, hips jerking. “You’re so greedy for it,” he comments and Louis bites out, “Fuck you,” but rolls his hips and moans a second later. 

“Condom?” Nick asks, brows furrowed as he’s concentrating on moving his fingers just right. 

“Do it without-” Louis breaks off into a whine, and Nick frowns, but doesn’t stop, his cock twitching at the thought of pressing into Louis bare, of filling him up and coming in him. 

“Are you sure?” he asks and again Louis nods quickly, looks back at Nick, mouth slack and wet and pink. “Please, just- Nick- I need-” 

He feels softer now, more relaxed, but still tight as fuck, and Nick realizes he can’t wait any longer, doesn’t have any patience left to open Louis up further, not with Louis begging like this. He pulls his cock from his pants again, fumbling to open the second sachet of lube with one hand. When he fails he removes his fingers from Louis, who whines loudly, and wipes them on his jeans. He rips the sachet open clumsily and coats his twitching cock until it’s slick and shiny with lube. 

“I can’t do it standing up,” Louis says suddenly and Nick’s gaze falls to his knees which are shaking. Louis looks back at him and then pushes himself off the soundboard, chest flushed and sweaty. 

“Well.” Nick bites his lip, contemplates for a moment, then grabs hold of Louis’ hips and pulls him backwards. “This chair seems fine for the both of us?”

“Yeah-” Louis sounds quiet and needy; he seems to hesitate for a moment, then dives down for a kiss, stealing Nick’s breath. He kisses like he’s hungry, like he’s been starving, and Nick kisses back, stroking his chest, shoulder and neck. 

“I’ll ride you, then?” Louis mumbles and Nick’s hips twitch up. Louis laughs and bites his bottom lip, then turns around and with Nick’s help climbs into his lap backwards, knees on either side of Nick’s thighs. 

His bum is right there and Nick sinks his teeth in, makes Louis squeak and bat at him, before he shifts down, rubbing his slicked up crack over Nick’s sensitive cock. Nick moans, slides his hands up Louis’ calves, shifts his hips and lets his cock catch against Louis’ hole. 

“Can I?” he asks, and doesn’t recognize his own voice for a moment from how rough it sounds. Louis gives his bum a little jiggle, then falls forward, holding himself against the soundboard, the small of his back arching, beautiful and perfect, spreading out into the lush fullness of his arse. “Please,” Nick tries again and rubs up. He takes hold of the base of his cock and guides it until the tip of his cock starts pressing in. 

White noise rushes through him as the pressure of Louis’ arsehole closes around him; his vision is reduced to the beating of his heart and the rush of blood in his ears and the glistening pinkness of Louis’ hole stretching around the width of his cock. 

Louis makes a noise like he’s choking, loud and desperate, and Nick thrusts up and in, and buries himself deep inside. 

“You’re so tight, babe,” he grunts, fitting his hands around Louis’ hips to hold him in place. He pulls out and thrusts back in, the chair creaking beneath them. “So fucking tight, but you still want it don’t you, I’ll fill you up-” He can’t stop babbling, needs an outlet, and Louis seems to like it, answering with a guttural _yes_ each time. 

He starts riding back against Nick, using the instability of their position to his advantage to rock onto Nick’s cock and meet Nick’s thrusts, his fingers curled tightly around the edge of the soundboard. 

“Oh god, baby-” Nick grits out and shuts his eyes for a second, overwhelmed. It takes him a few thrusts to catch up, to fall into a rhythm with Louis bouncing on him, but when he does Louis sobs out a whine, and hisses, “Yes, yes- there- that’s-”

Nick licks his lips and tries to keep the angle, tries to speed up despite the building pressure in his balls, the need to fuck into Louis sloppily and hard.

He can hear his own rapid breathing, the way his breath hitches and mixes with Louis’ small, sexy sounds, the way Louis keeps begging for more with little _ah_ s and _oh_ s and hissed, desperate _yes_ ’s. 

“You’re so good, so tight-” Nick digs his fingers in, wanting to leave a mark, and slows down, then speeds up again. He can feel himself edging closer, heat building in his body again, but he wants Louis to come first, wants to feel Louis go taut around him. 

Louis shivers in his hands, body twitching as his voice becomes louder. “Harder,” he hisses, “Nick, please- I’m- Nick- I’m so close-” Nick tries to keep going at that one spot, wants him to come apart from just that, from just his cock. 

“Are you coming?” he asks, “are you coming for me? Come for me, poppet, come for me-”

Louis almost shouts a _yes_ , freezes with his back arched and head dropping back; his body convulses, arsehole tightening around Nick’s cock, tearing Nick’s orgasm from him so suddenly the rush of heat and pleasure and electricity through his body is almost painful. His stomach tightens up and he feels himself twitch inside Louis, cock pulsing inside him, filling him up. 

Louis shudders again, like he can feel it too, and pushes off the counter; he sags against Nick, his back pressed to Nick’s chest, body stretched at an angle that can’t be very comfortable, but he’s warm and Nick wraps his arms around him in the afterglow, trying to catch his breath. 

He seeks out Louis’ mouth and kisses him, drags his hand down Louis’ sweaty chest to his stomach, dipping his fingers in the splatters of come there. Louis sighs against his lips and tries to curl closer, but the loss in balance causes the chair to roll backwards. 

Nick curses and digs his heels in, but then sits them up anyway because Louis _is_ heavy. He helps Louis up, carefully sliding him off his lap. 

“Don’t make me stand _now_ ,” Louis says, swaying. “And I’m _cold_.” Nick sighs heavily and gets up to let Louis sit in the chair again, where he sprawls all pliant and tired looking. 

“Very romantic,” Louis continues. Nick gives him a look and pulls his pants up then unhooks one half of the curtains shielding the room from the London nightlights. 

“I’m sorry this isn’t a five star hotel, Tomlinson,” he snaps, tries to go for harsh, but ends up sounding fond despite himself. 

“Oh shush.” Louis rolls his eyes and pulls himself out of the chair, then presses against Nick who wraps the heavy cloth around them both and sits them back down in the chair. “This is ridiculous,” he whines, but pulls his legs up to fit against Nick. 

Nick shakes his head and snorts. “This whole-” He stops himself again, biting his tongue, not wanting to ruin it so early. “What brought this on anyway. Not that I’m complaining.”

“No,” Louis says and nudges his nose against Nick’s chin. “I should be the one complaining - I’m filthy and I need a shower.” He goes quiet for a moment, nestled his head against Nick’s shoulder. “I had an itch,” he finally says, “and you seemed fit to scratch it.” 

“Ah.” Nick tugs him closer, but keeps his mouth shut. There’s not so much one can say to that, and Nick doesn’t feel like dwelling on it anyway. “Hey, so,” he starts again. “What do you say, shall we call for a taxi and go back to mine? Stop for some breakfast on the way?” 

Louis’ shoulders tense up, and then he hums. “I’d rather we finish off that bottle of champagne, then you show me the bathroom and I clean up and go home to my own bed.” 

He doesn’t sound particularly mean, just matter of factly and determined, and Nick finds himself at a loss again. 

“Alright,” he eventually says. “Whatever you want, pup.”

\- - -

Nick doesn’t fuck and tell; he’s learned the hard way when he was younger that that is never a good idea, especially when celebrities are involved, and now that he’s sort of one himself - more or less, depending on how cocky he’s feeling on any particular day - it seems like an even worse idea.

Nick knows that Pixie must know, though, the moment Nick calls her the next morning to ask if she wants to come out to his flat for a good brunch and mimosas, but she doesn’t say a single word and keeps her lips zipped, until Nick finally drops his salmon toast and loudly announces, “Fine! I fucked him! And then he left!”

“Okay,” she says around a chocolate strawberry. 

He also tells Aimee later that night when they’re out for post-party pints, and she just tilts a perfect red brow at him, and says, “The boy who was holding the fat puppy? What did you do that for?”

“I had no choice,” he says and drinks half his pint despite his protesting stomach. When Aimee gives him another long look, Nick wishes the day had gone differently. He could have taken Louis home, and they could have had breakfast in bed, and then spent all day watching telly and snacking and kissing. “He had an itch,” he says, “that needed scratching. I happen to be a spectacular itch-scratcher.” 

“Disgusting.” Aimee pulls a face, but still manages to look at him fondly, like he’s a funny animal whose antics she’s finding humorous at the moment. 

Nick collects a few numbers throughout the evening, but doesn’t pull; he tells himself that it’s because he has no _intention_ of pulling, which is half-true. As the night ends, Aimee pats his cheek and says, “Chin up, Grimmy. Nobody’s going to want to snog you if you keep up that kind of a sour face.” 

He chats with Harry on iMessage for a while after he gets home, too sober to really participate in Harry’s drunk telling of some story, and then falls asleep. Sunday rolls around with rain hitting Nick’s window, and he wakes with his cheek pressed into his pillow and a strange ache in his chest that he hasn’t felt in a while. 

He manages to collect himself enough to make coffee and some buttered toast, and sitting at his worn, ancient kitchen table, he scrolls through the contacts in his phone until he reaches ‘T’. 

Harry gave him Louis’ number forever ago, sometime last year when they were scheduled for an interview or something. Nick doesn’t remember, and he doesn’t even know if Louis’ number is still working. Harry changes his like one would change their toothbrush, and it’s a constant source of annoyance for Nick to find that Harry’s got a new number _again_ and forgot to text him about it again. 

Louis Tomlinson, the screen reads. Louis Tomlinson (1D), as if Nick had needed a hint back then to know. He takes another sip of coffee and then taps the name and then hits call. 

To his surprise it rings and doesn’t immediately send him into busy signal purgatory like he’d expected. After three, four rings, Nick is ready to hang up, though. He moves to do so, when suddenly Louis picks up, sounding sleepy. 

“Hello?” he says, “who is this?” 

Nick doesn’t know what to say, and then finally manages, “Hi, this uhm. This is Nick. Nick Grimshaw.”

There’s silence from the other end for too long, until Louis eventually says, “I know who you are, Nick, you don’t need to introduce yourself with your last name.” 

“Great,” Nick says. He’s starting to feel a bit angry, suddenly. “Well, I’m glad you do. That’s fantastic.”

“Don’t be an arsehole at nine o’clock in the morning, Nick,” Louis snaps, audibly annoyed, too. 

“It’s eleven, Tommo,” Nick says, looking up at the clock to make sure he’s correct. 

Louis huffs a sigh, and then Nick can hear bedsprings creak. “I’m not- I’m not Tommo to you.” 

“Tomlinson,” Nick says and rubs his forehead. He has no clue what the bloody hell he’s doing. 

“Louis,” Louis says. 

“Lewis,” Nick says and drops his head against the table with a thud. He feels like a complete twat. A stupid dumb twat. Louis growls and hangs up, and Nick listens to the disconnect tone for a good thirty seconds before hitting redial. 

Louis picks up before the first ringback tone. “What?” he barks.

“Do you want to have lunch?” Nick says quickly. “Or dinner. At my flat. Guaranteed no paps.” 

Louis inhales, and then Nick imagines watching him deflate, his anger suddenly dissipating into the surrounding air. “Lunch?” he asks, sounding confused. 

“Yes, lunch.” Nick taps his finger against the hardwood table. “I’ll make something. And if it does not find your approval we can order.” 

“I won’t go on a date with you, Nick,” Louis says gently, and Nick’s stomach tugs a little, like his insides are attempting to squirm away. 

“I know,” he says instead of shying away. “So this isn’t a date, it’s just lunch. Or dinner - depending on your schedule.” 

“Listen,” Louis starts again. “Friday night was-”

“You had an itch,” Nick repeats, “and it needed scratching.”

“Yes,” Louis sighs. 

“I feel the need to defend my honor here, because I have the impression that you thought I was only good for a one time scratching,” Nick says before he can start thinking too much again. “Admittedly that sort of rather hurt my pride. I am perfectly capable of repeated scratching.” 

Louis doesn’t say anything for a long time and Nick holds his breath and listens to the sound of the hand of the clock on the wall. 

“I like chicken,” Louis says. “I don’t like pies. I don’t like goat cheese. I like roast chicken and potatoes.” 

“I’ll call my mum,” Nick says. “And have her walk me through it.” 

Another sigh, but Nick can hear that it hides a laugh. “I really hope,” Louis says, “that this is the only time you speak about your mum today.”

“Promise.” Nick bites his lip to keep himself from grinning. “When are you coming by, poppet?”

“Louis,” Louis says. “Seven. No, seven-thirty. Primrose Hill, right?”

Nick nods, feeling dizzy. “Yes. I’ll text you the address. I’ll-” He stops himself again, buzzing. 

“Great.” A pause. Nick imagines Louis smiling, before Louis adds, “No flowers, Nick. 

This time, Nick can’t hold back his grin. “Cross my heart. No flowers.”

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Sam](http://dazy-laze.tumblr.com) for britpicking!! ♥ And to [Sadie](http://yetistyles.tumblr.com) and [Ayla](http://checkthemargins.tumblr.com) for handholding ♡
> 
> [Tumblr](http://flimsi.tumblr.com)|[Livejournal](http://flimsy.livejournal.com)


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